Dark Stars
by escapiism
Summary: The time-turner really messed things up this time — one second he's lying in a hospital bed as he listens to Dumbledore discuss (somewhat placidly) expulsion, and stupid, stupid Snivellus, and the next he's on the ground, covered in mud, in Beacon something in the year of 2011, surrounded by two delusional, and probably very hormonal teenagers.
**I don't exactly know what this is, or what it will become, but… plot bunnies. Just… plot bunnies. So, Remus is currently sixteen/seventeen, because this starts off in his sixth year, I think, where the whole James-saving-Snape ordeal took place. And then he ends up, for some crazy reason beyond explaining, in Beacon Hills, where he meets Stiles and Scott ;) Aaaaannnd I'm getting ahead of myself :) Oh, and for the pairings—I'm planning on getting Remus and Malia together, but it will be more of a love triangle, with an OC in the mix. And there will be Scott/Allison, because of trying to keep this canom (I love them anyway). And there will be… you guessed it…** _ **STYDIA**_ **! Sooner than later, because they are OTP.**

* * *

 **prologue**

* * *

 _One… two…_

He counts the hours, because that's all he has left to do. At least, he thinks they are hours—maybe it is years he is adding up in his head. Centuries, millenniums even—whichever, he wouldn't know, because for the last goodness knows what, he's been lying face down on his hospital bed, the pain from the apparently not-quite-over full moon searing through his back every two milliseconds. He still feels the hairs on the back of his neck arise from the non-existent humidity of the Womping Willow, and he still feels his claws digging into any surface available, so he knows he's still suffering from the after effects.

 _Three… four… five…_

He doesn't know what he's counting anymore, so he shuts down his brain to try and get at least a wink of sleep, something he hasn't since the twenty-first, when he was too busy biting through his own skin at the fright of either him or one of his best mates getting ripped into shreds.

Nightmares do come true, after all. For if they didn't, he wouldn't be in the hospital wing, but still in that Willow, hidden safely away until the effects were zilch, and it was one pretty big risk to be surrounded by god damn _humans_ , but…

But he doesn't know.

All he knows is that Padfoot, trusty Marauder Sirius, Sirius _Black_ tried to kill someone. Remus knows that for the majority of his life, Sirius is hardly aware of what goes around him, but he also knows that he wouldn't dive _that_ deep into the infernal depths of _no fucking escape_. But then again, he's Sirius. He's _Sirius_.

As he contemplates on whether to sleep or think of any way to forgive Sirius, he can't help but lean in a little to his left, where, using his still-not-so-recovered extra sensitive hearing, he catches a few words, a few words being shouted from left to right, then right to left.

" _Expulsion_!"

"Please—"

One voice belongs to Dumbledore, and the other belongs to… well, a man, evidently. Now counting's ruled out, all Remus has left is to die from the paranoia (again) and just hope to the heavens that he isn't some guard from Azkaban, ready to escort him there, because he's too young to die, and quite frankly, he did _nothing_ wrong.

"…You're getting quite ahead of yourself…"

Severus did _not_ die. And therefore, there is _no reason_ for Remus to get arrested. He wasn't sure _how_ and _who_ saved Snivellus from pulling the knot to shake Death's hand, but whoever the hell it was, he was _saved_. Yes, Remus was more than an inch closer to offing him, but in the end, Severus _didn't_ die. He didn't, and that was more important than anything else put together, wasn't it?

"… _Expulsion_ …"

Something lands on him, and he just about peers up and sees Madame Promfey somewhere on the other side of the Wing, and aside from that, the whole place is empty. His fingers strain, but once again, he pulls them upwards, just enough so he doesn't shriek out in pain, just enough so he can see what exactly fell on him in the first place.

It's gold. It's gold, yet rusty, but gold all the same.

It's absolutely miniscule, and he can barely feel the coldness scrape against his skin. He wonders if it is actually there, because something so small, so lightweight, cannot be real.

But it's visible. Barely, but just about.

"Mr Lupin, _sit down_ ," Madame Promfey peers over her shoulder, and so Remus nods quickly, shrinking down. He shrinks down, and down, and down, taking the new gold-whatever with him. He shrinks down, and down, and down, until he can't see anything but black, and a few gold dots threatening to push his vision; he can't see, but he can _hear_.

" _Remus… it has to be done._ "

* * *

He's walking, harmlessly, mindlessly, walking. Through a forest of some sorts, presumably, because the trees sway to a soft _swish swish_ , and a few squirrels pop out of nowhere, in the leaves, then down by the insects.

He's still walking, and then he steps on it. A stone, rather red, maybe a ruby if polished, and he picks it up, because something in him is tugging at him, chanting _do it! do it!_

This time, there's fire. It envelops him, it grabs at him, and yet it leaves no burns, and no insidious amount can, because in this moment, it seems to be that Remus is somehow invincible. The fireballs crackle at him, and land with no avail to leave so much of a mark.

Now he's in water, and it's minus seventy degrees or something along those lines, because _he_ … _can't_ … _breathe_ …

Just as his senses bring him out of the waves, he catches sight of a sword, one he probably only ever saw in picture books, just lingering at the bottom of the pit.

And then, as if he wasn't before, he awakes.

* * *

"Is he going to move?"

"Stiles, stop."

"Is he dead? Because if he is, that is _so coo—_ "

" _Stiles_ —"

One eye opens. The second follows. He's staring at something, but he doesn't know what it is.

"He's not dead."

" _Damn it_!"

It's dark—pitch black. And it's freezing, and it hurts, it hurts everywhere, and he doesn't have the slightest clue where he is and what's going to happen to him.

He wants to speak, but he chokes on them before they even get a chance to dissolve on his tongue, so he stays silent. He might as well be dead. Well, apparently he is, by the looks the two strange… boys are giving him.

And suddenly, he is blinded. Which, to him, is pretty impossible, because there is not a star present in the sky, except maybe the ghost of a waning moon, and so no possible light source can be in actual contact with his retina, or whatever, and therefore—

It's the brightness from the guy with the failed buzz cut—not from his face, or even a halo on his head, but the damn… t-shirt… he is wearing.

"I still think he's dead."

"He's _moving_."

"It's windy, okay? If the wind can somehow push your mother's car into the Pacific, then the wind can make a dead man move."

"What did you do with my mum's—"

"Nothing!"

He wants to speak—he's never in his whole life wanted to move his stupid mouth. But his words are all tops-turvy, and backwards, and _wrong_ , he doesn't understand how to separate his _i's_ and _o's_.

There is a deafening noise coming from his left, and he jolts up, grabbing his left ear in utter shock and pain. The two boys jolt with him, rattled, equally surprised, and in all, interested. They whisper about two words in each other's ears, before pulling Remus up to his feet, already dragging him down the line of trees—somewhere, _somewhere_.

 _Welcome to Beacon Hills!_

"Wh-where are you taking me?" Remus finally manages to get a word in edgeways, and he stares at the two boys, and then glances at the sign, before settling his gaze on the boys again. "Where the heck… am I? Where's _Beacon Hills_?"

The slightly shorter boy answers the moment it is asked, and babbles, "Beacon Hills, California, ninety miles north of Sacramento, a lovely place, you won't regret it, thank you, good—"

"You're… American."

It gets to him how he never noticed before, but the way they roll their _l's_ and how their _a's_ are _e's_ , it's so obvious he wants to smack himself. But he doesn't, also obviously, because his hands ache fit to burst open, and his forehead hurts with an equal set of power.

"Well, no shit," the taller guy with the shaggier haircut replies, except his sarcasm is rather weak, and he sounds more confused, and even, if Remus detected it right, _scared_. Remus tries to stifle his laugh at the guy, who reminds him a little of… Peter?

"I think he meant, no _shit_ , Sherlock," the other guy grins, and punches his friend playfully. "Our dear Scott's never got the hang of 'sarcasm bravado'—kinda explains the _dragging me to the deep depths of Nerdland and Star Wars_. But yes, we're American. And yes, Beacon Hills _is_ in California, ninety miles—"

"Okay," interrupts Remus.

"You're the one obsessed with all things Star Wars," the guy, presumably _Scott_ says.

Remus takes a second to peer at Scott, and the other dude, with a more artful eye—they seem like the typical hormonal teenager (like him), minus the exceptionally bright and totally modern clothes. Except, which normal teenager would randomly whisk a boy thought to be dead even deeper into the forest, without checking twice he was some serial killer or whatnot.

"You're British," Scott speaks up. "Who are you, exactly?"

He takes a moment to reply. "I'm Remus. Remus Lupin."

The other guy props up an eyebrow. "Right, and I'm Stiles Stillinski. I'm glad we're not the only ones with retarded parents—parent. Talking of them… where're yours?"

Remus shrugs, and scratches his head. "Well, if I'm in California right now… my dad's about three thousand miles away, and my mum's off the hut, drinking with her old Mu—" He stops himself. "Friends."

" _Stiles Stillinksi_!" a voice from beyond them bellows, and Stiles rolls his eyes, pushes both Scott and Remus into a tree, and runs off.

"Is he normally—"

"Yes."

No more words are exchanged, until Scott pulls him further behind the tree, fingers pressed to his lips in a _shh_ formation.

"I don't know who you are, or what you're at," starts Scott, out of the blue. "But if your parents really are back in England, you can stay at the old clinic, really close from here. To the right, sort of. You won't miss it, and Deaton treats everyone like the injured turtle. It's where I work. And… is your forehead okay? It's bleeding."

Remus brings two fingers up, and dabs at his skin. His fingers come back down— _blood_.

"Scott," asks Remus, in all seriousness. "What year is it?"

Scott shrugs, and stares at him incredulously. "It's… 2011."

Pause.

"Do you have a concussion?"

Remus closes his eyes, and then opens them again. "Y-yes. I think I have."

* * *

Remus doesn't remember much, except after he realised that he was not in 1976, he fell down again, down, down, down, with Scott, because they both shared that look—that look that screamed _what the hell do we do know_?

And then, there was a howl. Followed by a shriek.

And Remus found himself with words echoing through his mind. Scott, Stiles, 2011, Beacon Hills, the clinic, _everything_. Sirius, Snape, the golden object, _everything_.

Being sent here—being sent to this… place, in California, miles and miles, years and years away from _home_ , had a reason, didn't it? Everything had a reason.

"Who are you?"

And for, Merlin, he lost count, the millionth time, or so, his eyes find the eyes of someone he is not at all familiar with. His eyes, brooding, dark, his expression evasive, his features all cloak-and-dagger.

Remus did not find himself running away, instead, he looks forward, his gaze fixated, and his vision suddenly clearing. His ears perk up, and a ringing sound fills them. With equal features, with equal eyes and with an equal expression, Remus nods, because in that moment, that is what his conscience is begging him to do. He... understands.

"Remus Lupin."

Another howl.

* * *

 **Short, filler chapter, and yes, the ambiguity is deliberate, because it will all unfold over the course of the next chapters. But I think you all know who he met in the end :) And yes, Scott and Stiles are a little insane, but that's normal in the Scott-and-Stiles way, right?**

 **Feedback is very much appreciated!**


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